


Summer 1974

by Miracule



Series: 1974 [2]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Dissociation, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Major Illness, One-Sided Attraction, Period-Typical Homophobia, Roger Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-05 06:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19042987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miracule/pseuds/Miracule
Summary: Roger lets Brian win whenever they have a disagreement. It’s a bit silly, but Brian doesn’t make a fuss about it. It’s Roger’s way of being kind.





	1. Hospital

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I Shall Be Healed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17252423) by [LydianNode](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode). 



> In terms of chronology, this follows _Futile Devices_ but is not a direct sequel. All of the stories in this series are loosely linked by Brian’s shitty 1974, but they do stand alone.

Brian counts the hours. Twelve to one, one to two, two to three. Sleep. Five forty-five. Sleep. Seven. Breakfast, lunch, a visit from one of his parents, or both. Maybe Chrissie. Maybe Rog. Evening. Nighttime news on the radio. Nine to ten, ten to eleven, eleven to twelve.

And then again.

And again.

There just isn’t much to look forward to in hospital.

The people are nice enough. There’s Tina—the night nurse who wears too much rouge on her cheeks and speaks with a mild lisp. She’s Brian’s favorite. Then there’s Romy, Sarah, and Jen. Romy is French, but speaks better English than most of the boys in Brian’s astrophysics cohort. Sarah is a dedicated fan of Scott Walker, and Jen has a cousin in Oxford who also plays guitar. He’s very good, apparently.

Then there’s Drs. MacDonald and Mercer—the latter of whom is still a resident and isn’t much older than Brian himself. Neither of them come around very often, and MacDonald still hasn’t bothered to learn his name.

The man who brings his food is called Tim. But he isn’t Brian’s Tim.

Brian’s Tim stopped by earlier this week.It was a brief visit, not very long after Brian’s surgery, and Tim insisted that he didn’t want to tire him out. _I’ll come back_ , he said. _You should rest._

Brian agreed, only because he didn’t know how to articulate that he’d rather be tired with Tim than tired without him.

If Brian himself is the lead in this shit show, then his exhaustion is his freeloading co-star—always clinging to his neck, making the simple act of raising his head a concerted effort.

Of course, the nurses do their best to keep him occupied, and he gets enough visitors drifting in and out of the room that it forces him to be awake—not alert, but awake—for good portions of the day.

It’s night that’s the real kicker. The pain is worse then—his body aches all over and his right arm feels stiff and swollen at his side.

He lies awake for hours, his heart beating hard against his ribs. Maybe it’s one in the morning, or four. It makes no difference. He wonders vaguely if he’ll die here, even though he’s recently been told that he’s _on the mend_ , whatever that means.

In the morning, he invariably wishes he could go back to sleep, but the bustle of the nurses and Tim bringing breakfast keep him trapped in an unwilling state of wakefulness.

And that’s how it goes, and how he imagines that it will go, until they finally discharge him.

Or he dies. 

This morning is no different. He’s so, so tired. He chokes down some oatmeal, which is the most he can stomach, along with some cold orange juice. The sweetness makes it palatable. Water just makes him gag. 

But today, Brian does have something to look forward to. If it is indeed Wednesday—and Romy confirms this to be true—Roger is meant to visit. Brian has enjoyed Roger’s company more than he’d care to admit. It makes him feel somewhat normal, as if they’re not actually sat in a stuffy old hospital. It’s oddly comforting, having Roger sitting next to him talking complete bollocks.

John has been to see him as well, but being less of a talker than Roger, he brought along a book to read. They sat in relative silence while Brian picked at his lunch, which ended up being considerably less awkward than Brian feared it might be.

John did, however, scowl at the pudding—some kind of pale chocolate mousse—and ask, “What does _that_ taste like?”

“Really awful,” Brian answered, smiling around his spoon.

John cocked his head. “Well, I was gonna ask you to save me some, but never mind, then.”

“Roger had some.”

“Well, that’s his problem,” John sighed, returning to his book.

If Brian misses anything about being with the band, it’s the simple pleasure of John’s peculiar sense of humor. Certainly not Roger smoking a hundred cigarettes in a row, or Freddie going off in a tizzy about one thing or another. 

But whatever’s become of Mr. Mercury?

It’s been nearly two weeks since his admittance and Fred only came once, within the first few days. To be honest, Brian doesn’t even remember much about that visit; he’d been drugged up to his ears at the time.

But he had received a handwritten note some days later— _Please get well ASAP, dear, you’re sorely missed! Much love, Fred_ —and a bunch of flowers, dutifully delivered by a squirming Roger.

“He picked blue ones ‘cause he knows you like blue.”

“Oh?”

“He wanted me to tell you _specifically_. You know Fred. He’ll ask if I did.”

Jen walked in just then, and Roger launched into an entirely unsolicited explanation about how the flowers were from a mutual friend. He was only the delivery boy, he assured her, not the suitor.

Fred wouldn’t care, Brian thought. So why not come in person?

Roger had been taken aback by the question.

“I don’t know. He said he was busy today, but he means to come. Honestly? I think he’s a bit scared.” 

“Of what?” 

“I dunno. You, I guess.”

 

 

 

 

It begins to rain.

Brian doesn’t mind very much—in fact, he rather likes sitting by the window and watching people run to and fro with their jackets pulled over their heads. There’s a woman in a red skirt who trips over the curb while fussing with her umbrella, and Brian almost calls down to ask if she’s all right, until he remembers that the windows don’t actually open.

Whoever thought of that, anyway?

He wonders if Roger will come after all, with the roads likely being even slower than usual. He knows very well that the trip is a nuisance—not only from Trident, where the band might well be meeting without him, but also from Roger’s flat. It’ll take him maybe half an hour or forty minutes in this weather, especially if he has to contend with evening commuters.

But Roger does arrive, late in the afternoon, just as the rain’s giving way to a glimmer of cool sunlight.

There’s a soft knock at the door and then he lets himself in, offering a faint “hi, Bri.”

Brian pulls himself upright, and he can’t help but notice that Roger looks like absolute shit. Maybe he doesn’t look as bad as Brian, but that’s a very low bar. He’s all pale and washed out—even shivering a little under his damp denim jacket. 

“Rog. You all right?” Brian asks, wincing at the scratchy, unfamiliar sound of his own voice.

Roger shakes his head. “I spent the whole night at home. Like, _home_ home. Mum’s kicking Dad out.”

He sits heavily in the chair by the bed and pulls his cap down over his eyes. For as long as they’ve known each other, Roger has hated being home, but it took him a long while to admit why. Even now, Brian doesn’t know details. Just, dad hits mum. Full stop.

“Was he there?”

“Yeah.”

Brian looks at him, opens his mouth, closes it. Roger is very still, save for his chest going up and down as he breathes. He’s wrapped an arm around his belly, and is holding on tightly to the hem of his shirt. Is he in pain? God, he should ask.

“Did he... try anything? With you?”

Roger smiles faintly at that. “Nah.”

“Is your mum okay?”

“I mean, for now,” Roger sighs, “but she wanted me to be there. Just in case, you know.”

“Right.” Brian wants to say more, but he doesn’t know where to start. 

Roger, however, is eager to move on. “But don’t worry about us. We’re all right. Tell me how you are.”

Brian ponders that for a moment. “Not bad. They actually let me go. I’m just staying for the atmos.” 

Roger smiles. Good. “Smartarse,” he mutters.

“Yeah, yeah,” Brian picks at a stray thread in his hospital-issue dressing gown. “Sorry. I’m going a bit mad, honestly.”

“Christ, I don’t blame you. It can’t be that much longer, though, can it? I see they’ve taken your drip out.”

“Oh, I dunno. They won’t give me a straight answer.”

Roger nods and unfurls himself to pull a neatly folded paper from inside his jacket. “Would it help if I said that I brought you a copy of the Sun?”

“Absolutely not.” Brian makes a face. “God, you know I can’t stand that rag.”

“Yeah, but we’ve got to keep you on top of things, haven’t we?”

And so they pass the time with Roger reading aloud from the paper—complete with terrible impressions—and then chatting about nothing in particular. Roger does most of the chatting, of course, but Brian butts in when he feels up to it. Roger lets Brian win whenever they have a disagreement. It’s a bit silly, but Brian doesn’t make a fuss about it. It’s Roger’s way of being kind. 

When Tina comes in to tell them that visiting hours are almost over, Brian is actually taken aback by how quickly the time has passed. He hardly even noticed the darkness settling into the corners of the room.

“Right,” Roger says, gathering his jacket under his arm. “Guess that’s my cue.”

But he doesn’t stand straight away. He sits there for a moment, mulling something over. Brian _knows_ that he’s mulling something over because Roger’s only ever quiet when he’s mulling something over.

“ _What_?”

“I forgot to say... Fred’s coming tomorrow. I was supposed to ask if that’s okay with you.”

Brian frowns. “Fred?”

“The one and only." 

“Are you coming with him?"

“I dunno, maybe. Would you want me to?" 

Brian fidgets. “I’m okay. Fred’ll keep me company.”

Roger smiles a little. “Suit yourself.”

 

 

 

 

There’s something about Freddie.

Something that throws Brian for a loop, and makes him second guess everything he does. It isn’t very fair, he thinks, that Freddie has this sort of power over him. For example, it doesn’t seem to work on Roger. Roger just doesn’t give a shit. He’ll write a song, let Fred change half the words, and still be happy at the end of it.

But when Freddie and Brian work on something together, there’s always collateral damage involved. Someone walks away wounded, stomping feet, banging doors.

That isn’t to say that he doesn’t _like_ Freddie. He does, actually. A lot.

Thrown for a loop is a good way to put it. 

With Roger gone, Tina comes back to give Brian his medication. 

“You all right, love?” she asks, placing a cupful of tablets in front of him. “You look glum.”

“I’m okay,” Brian mumbles, feeling warm under her gaze. She puts her little hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

“Your friend from earlier—I forgot his name—he’s funny.”

“Roger.” Brian cracks a smile. “He would love that you said that.”

“Well, it’s nice that you have so many people wanting to see you. You’re well-cared for, you are.”

Brian hasn’t really thought about it that way. It’s strange to think of himself in terms of being someone that other people—what—care for? Like? Let alone _love_.

Parents are one thing. Parents _have_ to do it. Well, maybe not Roger’s parents, but Roger—

Well, Roger...

Brian feels a funny sort of warmth in his belly.

He drifts off at some point around midnight, feeling a little foggy, a little sore, but not entirely uncomfortable. He doesn’t wake up again until nine, when sunlight streams through the cheap linen curtains around the window.

 

 

 

 

Brian spends most of Thursday morning listening to the voices in the hallway.

Eventually, he hears Freddie. There’s that high-pitched laugh—a bouncy little sound that he recognizes immediately.

“Oh, dear,” Fred is saying, “Is that a Walker Brothers record? Have you shown him? He likes music, you know. We’re in a band. But I don’t know if he likes the Walker Brothers." 

Brian takes a deep breath. This is absurd, really. Why should he be nervous? It’s been two weeks, not two years.

It’s only _Fred_.

“Knock, knock,” Fred sings, poking his head around the doorframe. He smiles, brushes some dark hair out of his face.

“Hi.” Brian sits up straighter against his pillows.

“Hi,” Freddie echoes quietly. “Can I come in, then?”

“I—yeah. Of course. It’d be weird if you just... stood there.”

“It would,” Freddie agrees, shuffling closer. “You look,” he trails off, looks Brian up and down, “really good.”

“Really?” Brian smiles. “I dunno. I try not to look.”

“You look better,” Freddie says, firmer. “A little thinner, maybe, but god, so much better.”

“I feel better.”

Freddie beams.

“Also, I do like them.”

“What?”

“The Walker Brothers.”

“Oh, that! I was talking to that nurse out there—the pretty one. Lucky thing.” He pats Brian on the knee. “You’ve got all these nice girls to take care of you.”

“Yeah, but,” Brian begins.

He wants to say sorry. It’s there, on the tip of his tongue. It was there as soon as Fred walked into the room. He’s already apologized to Roger and John—they both dismissed it immediately—but Fred is different. With his unmatched passion for Queen, he deserves more than an apology.

“ _But_?”

“I’m really sorry, Fred.”

Freddie just stares at him for a moment. “For what?”

“You know—”

“ _Brian_ ,” Freddie warns. “What are you sorry for?”

Brian opens his mouth, but Freddie cuts him off. “Are you about to say the tour?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, yeah.”

“All right, shut up. Do you remember much? From the trip home?”

Brian sinks a little lower in his bed. No, he doesn’t. He vaguely remembers pain. Mostly pain—a throbbing, constant ache. And feeling as if the world were swimming before his eyes. He remembers drifting in and out of consciousness somewhere above the Atlantic, sticky with sweat and shivering under a layer of blankets. 

“Not much,” he mutters, and yet, too much. 

“No, because you were _really_ sick,” Freddie tells him, holding his gaze for a moment before looking down at his lap. “Honestly, we thought...” He goes quiet.

“It was bad. It was _bad_ , Brian. Honestly, Roger was in tears the whole trip because he was the one who fought the hardest to keep you in New York. He was right, anyway, we should’ve stayed. It was the fucking management who— _anyway_.” Freddie takes a shallow breath. “Don’t be sorry for the tour. Just don’t.” 

“I just feel—” Brian cuts himself off this time, but Freddie looks at him expectantly. “It doesn’t matter.”

Freddie groans. “That’s not... I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t want you to feel guilty and keep it to yourself. You feel what?”

“I don’t know, Fred,” Brian says weakly. “I don’t _fucking_ know. I’m just _sorry_.”

Freddie nods, bounces his knee. He isn’t happy, but he’s not exactly angry, either.

“Just promise me, promise me, you won’t put your fucking health on the fucking back burner again. If you promise, I’ll forgive you.”

That was a lot of _fucks_ by Fred’s standards.

“I promise,” Brian says. He raises his right hand as far as it will go, which isn’t far before the pain stops him.

“Listen—” Freddie reaches out as if to touch him, but changes his mind halfway through. They sit in silence for a moment before he continues, “as long as we’re in confession, can I say sorry for something too?” 

Brian nods.

“I should’ve come sooner. To visit, I mean.”

“Well, you were busy,” Brian offers, shrugging a shoulder.

Freddie shakes his head. “Not that busy. I was just... not sure if you wanted to see me.”

Brian would laugh if he had the energy. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“God, I don’t even know,” Freddie mutters, dropping his head in his hands. “I didn’t want to annoy you, I guess.”

“Really?” Brian asks, incredulous. “You don’t annoy me.” 

“Don’t I?” 

“Well, sometimes you do, but that doesn’t mean I don’t,” he pauses, searching for the right words, “want you here.” He becomes vaguely aware that he’s blushing—that might be the most intimate thing he’s ever said to Freddie. Brian is certainly not the type to wear his heart on his sleeve. Neither of them are.

“Oh, dear,” Freddie says, hiding a little smile behind his palm, “that’s... kind of you.” 

“You know what I mean,” Brian mumbles. 

“I’m not sure,” Freddie says, savoring every word. “Are you saying that we’re _mates_?”

“Well, yeah. Aren’t we?”

“I think so. I like you a lot, you know. Oh, stop that, blushing like a schoolgirl!”

Brian winces. “Well, saying it like that sounds...”

“What, a bit queer?” Freddie laughs. “So what? I think it’s sweet. Girls say ‘I love you’ to their friends.”

“I’m _not_ saying that,” Brian mutters.

“Hello, boys! Sorry to interrupt.” 

It’s Sarah, the very same Scott Walker fan, wondering if Brian would like to go for a walk. “You should get moving a bit. Exercise is really important now.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Freddie agrees. He looks at Brian for confirmation.

“Well, I guess. I mean, if you want,” Brian says, looking back at Freddie. He isn’t exactly roaring to go, but if Freddie’s willing to creep along the ward with Brian in tow, then it’s a fair way to spend twenty minutes. Twenty minutes is generally the amount of time Brian can walk unassisted before he struggles with the weight of his own body. 

“Where shall we go, then?” Freddie wonders as Brian shimmies to the edge of the bed. “Do you need help?”

“No. Thanks,” Brian adds, carefully touching his socked feet to the floor. He stands, slowly, immediately getting a bit of flack from his knees. But his legs, despite being a bit shaky, feel relatively strong.

“Nice gown,” Freddie quips, earning a glare from Brian.

“Give me a break, Fred.”

“Sorry. Sorry.” He clears his throat. “That was under the belt. Literally, hah!”

Freddie isn’t as nice as the nurses, but he does take his chaperoning responsibilities very seriously. He keeps one hand on the small of Brian’s back, and whenever Brian slows, Freddie easily matches his pace. 

They make it a few laps up and down the hall before Brian tugs at Fred’s arm. He’s starting to feel a little lightheaded. It’s not an alarming feeling—just a sober reminder that exercise is quite tiring for someone who’s been in the midst of acute hepatitis and a bout of gangrene.

“Can we go back?” Brian asks.

“God, you don’t have to ask me. Are you all right?” Freddie now has his hand around Brian’s waist, and although it feels a bit over the top, Brian is admittedly touched by his concern. 

“Fine. I’m a bit lightheaded, that’s all.”

“Well, should I get someone?”

Brian shoots him a stern look, shakes his head no. Back in the safety of his room, he untangles himself from Freddie and sits at the edge of the bed, taking a few slow, deliberate breaths.

“I swear, if you faint...”

“I’m not.” He knows his weaknesses very intimately at this point, and no, he is not going to faint.

“All right, all right. Let’s give it a moment to pass, then.”

Brian nods. He forces a smile in response to the discomfort, trying to let it roll off. He should be used to it by now, maybe, but being vulnerable is not something Brian has ever been comfortable with. 

“Sorry I’m not good company,” he sighs.

Freddie sits heavily in his chair. “I don’t know if you remember—probably not—but on the flight home, they let us put you across the whole row of seats. Do you remember?”

“Kind of. No.”

“Well, that’s how it was. Your head was right here,” he says, patting his thigh. “And you were out cold. For hours. Just totally out.”

“Oh.” Brian isn’t sure how to feel about that.

“If you say sorry again, I’ll hit you. I didn’t mind then, and I don’t mind now.”

“You’ve never hit anyone in your life. But fine.” 

“There you are. Same old Brian.”

Freddie smiles—a big, toothy grin—and squeezes Brian’s hand. Brian, of course, keeps his opinions to himself. He isn’t the same, not by a long shot. But for the moment, everything is in its right place.


	2. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian finds out that he's not the only one who's been having a rough time.

The shift from hospital to home doesn’t feel as momentous as Brian had hoped. It’s just, one day he’s in one bed, and the next day he’s in a different bed. He still feels nearly as exhausted as before, and now that there’s no one around to tell him what to do, Brian can crawl under the duvet and lie about for hours on end. That is, until Chrissie gets home from her teaching job.

She’ll come into the bedroom and tug at his feet until he groans and agrees to get up for dinner. This happens nearly every day for two weeks until Chrissie tells him that it’s been long enough; to _please_ start making an effort, which he does already, funnily enough, just by keeping himself alive.

Now, that’s not to say that Brian doesn’t do his fair share of keeping the flat tidy, or doing a bit of cooking. It’s just, that’s about all he _can_ do. Going outside to empty the bins is like climbing Everest—let alone going to the shops down the road. Sir Edmund should be proud of what Brian’s accomplished, frankly.

Still, when he hears that the band have been meeting again, his heart sinks.

He finds this out when Freddie stops by the flat to deliver some homemade almond biscuits courtesy of Mrs. Bulsara. Freddie seems loath to admit that they’re doing anything without him, but _Sheffield wants it done_ , apparently.

Brian is still too ill to record, but Freddie tells him that they would like him to attend an upcoming meeting with their management and Trident. Apparently, they’re trying to set a revised release date for the album which they’ve been tinkering on. Although the idea of making such a significant trip puts Brian into a near-instant state of dread, he agrees. If he’s going to keep his spot in the band, he figures, it should at least look like he’s making an effort to that end. 

"Lovely," Freddie said, oblivious. "Roger will pick you up."

When the day finally arrives, Brian couldn’t be less enthusiastic. The only thing keeping him from canceling is the fear of having to tell Freddie that he’s changed his mind. It’s meant to be at eleven in the morning, so when the doorbell rings around nine, Brian is still dripping wet in the shower. Surely that can’t be Roger already. There’s that dread, sinking into the pit of his stomach, twisting up his insides.

Brian dries himself off as best he can, but he’s still damp and shivering as he shuffles into the hallway to peek through the peephole.

“You’re early, Rog,” he sighs, pulling the door open and motioning his friend inside. “Come on, let’s go, let’s go.”

“Oh, sorry ‘bout that.” Roger looks him up and down, a smile playing on his lips. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Roger seems to have put together some sort of garish summertime ensemble consisting of a mauve-colored blouse and slim white trousers embroidered with golden lilies.

“God, that’s an outfit, isn’t it?”

Roger looks down at himself. “I spent a long time on this getup, and I think it’s actually quite nice!”

“What _is_ that shirt?”

“An old piece from Kenny Market, d’you like it?”

“It looks like a little girl’s.”

“Well, it’s a boy’s now,” Roger tells him, unbothered.

“All right, hang out for a moment, will you? Go watch telly or something.”

Safely into his bedroom, Brian prepares to face his closet. Considering what Roger’s thrown together—not to mention what Freddie is likely to wear, the little showman—he figures that he ought to make himself look a bit more mature. The more responsible, the better. Unfortunately, touring with the band’s taken over much of his wardrobe. He’s picked up a lot of glam and not much else.

When he does finally find an outfit he’s happy with, it’s only half a victory. The shirt’s hanging loose on him, but he doesn’t have many other options. Brian ducks into his closet for a nice pair of shoes as a hard _rat-a-tat-tat_ sounds at the door.

“You decent?” Roger calls.

“No.”

“Right, I’ll come in anyway. Oh! You liar, you’re nearly ready.”

Brian rolls his eyes. “What’s going on, Rog? I thought this thing wasn’t ‘til eleven.”

“Yeah, well, I was hoping we could stop for breakfast on the way in. I haven’t eaten.”

Brian looks up and regards him warily. “Where, Raymond’s?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Roger shrugs. “Wherever you want. You up for it?”

“I guess. But _not_ that place you had us go last time. I was ill for the whole day after that.”

“They closed, remember? Sanitation finally shut ‘em down. Rest in peace.”

“Oh, right,” Brian mutters, checking himself out in the mirror. “Does this look okay, then?”

“You look fine.” A beat. “A bit thin, maybe...”

“Gosh, I hadn’t noticed. Go on, you’re in front of the light switch.”

“You do feel all right, though?”

Brian sighs, nudges his friend into the hallway. “I’m fine. The same, you know. Tired.”

“Right...”

“Okay, I’m all set, I think. Just need my key and stuff.”

Roger waits for him in the hall. As Brian emerges from the kitchen with his things, Roger cocks his head. “You look handsome, Bri,” he says, with that odd mix of sincerity and cheek that Brian can never quite parse.

 

 

 

The café that Roger’s chosen is off on some little side street, and Roger nearly passes the turn. He hits the brakes hard enough that they both lurch forward in their seats. Brian swears under his breath.

“Sorry,” Roger mutters, grimacing.

Brian’s feeling a headache coming on already, and it hasn’t even been a whole twenty minutes since he left home. Why should he be at this meeting anyway? The band already know that he isn’t supposed to be working for another two weeks yet. They can figure it out without him. Just tell him what to do and he’s set.

But it’s too late for all that. He’s committed to this—and to _England's best café since 1963_ , apparently. Well, how can he say no to that?

Roger spends the first ten minutes of breakfast chatting Brian’s ear off about how their sound man has gotten himself into hot water with his wife back in Cardiff. He doesn’t seem to notice that Brian is totally out of it, or if he does notice, it certainly doesn’t slow him down. But when the waitress comes by to take their order, Brian tries to say “just coffee, thanks” as casually as he can, only to have Roger cut him off.

“He’ll have a fried egg sandwich, actually, and then the bacon roll for me.”

“All right, so the sandwich, bacon roll, and two coffees.”

“Ta.”

“God, Rog, I’m not that hungry,” Brian mutters as the girl walks away.

“Yeah, but fuck, man, you’ve gotta eat sometime, haven’t you?”

“I _do_ eat.”

“I dunno what Chrissie makes you swallow, but—”

“Rog. You’re not my mother. I’m not twelve. You don’t have to order for me.”

Roger sits back in his chair, a little scowl forming on his face. They sit in silence for a minute or two until the waitress brings their coffees. “Thanks,” they mumble at the same time.

“You’re welcome. I’ll have the food in a few minutes, okay?” She looks at Brian when she speaks and blushes a little when he flashes her a small smile. She smiles back, looks down at her notepad, and shuffles quickly back toward the kitchen.

She’s cute, maybe a little older than he is, with a round face and curly dark hair, not totally unlike his own. Roger gives him a gentle kick under the table.

Brian kicks him back, harder. “Don’t start.”

Roger leans across the table, tugs at Brian’s sleeve. “You should get her number.”

“You know I’m not gonna do that.”

“Just for fun, like!”

“God, will you stop with that?”

“Come on, I was only—”

“Give it up. I’m not in the mood.”

Roger stirs his coffee slowly, a strange expression on his face.

Brian shuts his eyes, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

There’s another minute of terse silence before their waitress comes back. “Here you are, boys. Let me know if you need anything else, all right?”

“Thank you,” Brian says, not looking up.

Roger doesn’t even say thanks. He just stares at his plate with a look that Brian can only describe as wounded.

If Brian had any sort of appetite whatsoever, he certainly doesn’t now. But he still picks at the sandwich, if only to placate Roger in some small way. He takes one small bite after another, but swallowing is the challenge. Food doesn’t agree with him anymore. He feels queasy nine times out of ten when he sits down for a meal, which is incredibly unpleasant. Maybe it's the nausea that provokes him into nagging Roger. Maybe. 

“Look,” he says, leaning across the table. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but you don’t have to do this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Baby me like this. Taking me out to breakfast and whatnot. Telling me to eat.”

Roger’s expression darkens, and Brian knows that he’s taken it one step too far. “I didn’t ask you to breakfast to _baby_ you,” Roger hisses, “I just wanted to—I dunno. Stuff this.” He searches around for the waitress, but she’s busy behind the counter.

“One minute,” she mouths.

“I just mean, you don’t have to—” Brian tries to recover.

“Oh, fuck off. You’re a real piece of work, sometimes, you know? I can’t—” Roger cuts himself off when he notices the waitress edging toward their table, looking very cautious.

“We’ll take the bill, thanks,” Roger tells her, his voice polite yet wavering.

Brian rubs the back of his neck, trying not to look at the poor girl as she places their bill on the table. _This is really shit._

Roger hands her a fiver.

“Ta,” he says, pushing his chair back and gathering his jacket. Brian doesn’t move, his mind working furiously to comprehend how he’s gotten himself into this mess. It has the absurd quality of lover’s quarrel, with Roger marching out of the café without him.

Brian can’t even look the waitress in the eye as he thanks her. Mechanically, he takes one last sip of coffee—which does nothing to help his stomach—and hurries out the door to make sure his ride doesn’t leave him stranded on the sidewalk.

On second thought, Brian would’ve preferred that to the sight of Roger waiting for him by the car, aggressively lighting a cigarette.

Brian trudges over. He knows he’s been prissy, unfair, what have you. He knows Roger is just trying to be nice. He knows it’s his fault, as per. His mood’s been all over the place lately—distressingly so. He feels like a different person. But he doesn’t want to get into that right now.

“I’m sorry.”

Roger takes a short drag from his cigarette. “It’s fine. Forget it.”

“You’ve _just_ stormed out on me.”

Roger shrugs.

“Christ.” Brian’s headache is heading into migraine territory. “If you’re cross with me, at least tell me why.”

“I wasn’t trying to baby you.”

“Okay. I’m _sorry_ ,” Brian repeats, desperately.

Roger takes another drag. “And I’m not cross with you.”

“Then why the fuck are we standing out here?”

“Okay, I was, but it was silly. I overreacted.”

“You? Overreacting?” Brian makes a face. “You’re worse than a girl!”

“Fine, listen. Brian, listen.” Roger tosses his cigarette into the gutter as if he’s frustrated with it. “Are you all right? I mean, _really_ all right?”

“I’m fine. I told you, it’s just fatigue—”

“No.” Roger shakes his head adamantly. “Not like that. I mean, you’ve been so down since getting out of hospital. And I’m not trying to put you on the spot, but... what is going on with you?”

Roger isn’t exactly pithy, but Brian gets the gist of what he’s trying to say. _You’ve changed._

Yes, he has.

“I don’t know,” Brian says, trying not to admit that _yes, in fact, I am losing the will to live, thanks for asking._ Roger regards him carefully, and Brian can see the wheels turning furiously in his mind.

“Okay,” Roger says finally, digging into his pocket for his keys. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rub you the wrong way.”

Brian crumbles a little. “No, I was being awful.”

“Right,” Roger sighs. “Well, that’s settled. Shall we?”

 

 

 

“Here come the cavalry,” John announces, smiling ear-to-ear. John and Freddie are sat in the foyer outside the main office, heads close together, when Roger and Brian slog through the front door. 

Freddie whips around immediately. “Oh, there you are!”

“We’re early, aren’t we?” Roger mutters, checking his watch.

“Yes, but I’ve been waiting for this one!” Freddie bounds up to them, and Brian barely has time to lift his arms before Freddie catches him around the waist and hugs him tightly. For a smaller lad, Freddie is really strong when he wants to be. He presses the side of his face into Brian’s, cheek to cheek, and Brian gets a powerful whiff of Freddie’s cologne.

“It’s only been a few days, Fred,” Brian laughs, returning the embrace, albeit with a little less enthusiasm.

“Yes, but this is your first bit of band business since America, isn’t it? It’s a big moment!”

Roger moves aside, arms crossed tightly over his chest as John comes over to clap Brian on the back.

“Good to have you back, mate,” he says, giving Brian a little one-armed hug since Freddie still hasn’t relinquished his hold.

“Thanks, John.” Brian smiles, not totally unhappy with the attention. He’s sure they don’t realize it, but making it this far has already been a monumental accomplishment in itself, in so many ways. Roger would probably agree with that as well, and Brian tries to meet his gaze, but Roger is looking very firmly in the opposite direction.

 

 

 

The meeting goes well, at least according to John.

Brian had not been entirely present for most of it, owing to a rather distressing feeling of dissociating from his own body. By the end of the hour, his heart was racing, his palms were sweaty, and he felt about a hair’s breadth from fainting to the floor and never getting up.

Of course, he didn’t, and he feels quite a bit better upon fleeing Sheffield’s office, but he’s shaken nonetheless. This is why he hates leaving the flat. You can’t just lie on the bed to take a breather when you’re out in public. You have to sit there and suffer while the world powers on without you.

“I think they got the message,” John is saying, although Brian isn’t 100% sure what the message is supposed to be.

“Yeah,” Freddie shrugs. “I mean, it won’t be easy, but we’ll do our best. In two weeks, maybe Brian can join us in the studio for a few days. See how you feel and whatnot,” Freddie adds, looking at him expectantly.

Brian nods. “Sure.” It’ll be a shit show, but sure.

“Do you wanna go for lunch or something?” John asks, stretching his arms above his head. “I’m starving.”

“I could eat,” Fred agrees, and Roger nods.

“I dunno, guys, I’m a bit...” Brian begins, panicking at the idea of spending another hour or two away from home. He just knows he won’t be comfortable, sitting in some smoky little pub or café. 

“Oh, are you sure? Well...”

Roger looks at him. “I can drive you back, if you want.”

Oh. That’s not a very attractive idea either. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, then.

“But, you should go,” Brian protests weakly.

“Well, we did eat on the way here.”

Yes, Brian does recall something like that happening. Roger waves to the other two. “You guys go, I’ll take Brian home.”

“Oh, all right.” Freddie pulls a glum face. “But next time, all right?”

John salutes them as he and Freddie go off toward the bus stop, chattering like two little lovebirds. Roger takes off at a brisk walk, leaving Brian to scurry after him.

“I could’ve taken the bus,” he mutters.

“I told you, I didn’t feel like going. Anyway, it’s a ways. The bus would take forever.”

“Yeah, but... Okay.” Brian settles into the passenger seat. “Thanks."

“I don’t mind.”

The ride is uneventful. They don’t say much to each other, but there isn’t anything particularly awkward about that. Having shared a flat, they’ve gotten comfortable simply being around each other, not feeling the need to fill the silence. Besides, Brian is just _tired_. Spent and tired. He leans his head against the window and closes his eyes as Roger hums along to a song on the radio.

When they finally arrive at Brian’s flat, Roger pulls properly into the curb, puts the car into park, and kills the engine. Brian takes this as a sign that someone is about to invite himself in.

“Do you have any food in there?” Roger asks. “I am a _bit_ hungry.”

Of course. But Brian isn’t bothered by this turn of events. With the anxiety from the meeting ebbing away, he feels quite a lot better. Tired, yes, but not averse to a bit of company.

“Yeah, sure. Come on, then.”

They traipse up the front stairs and Roger makes a beeline for the fridge.

“Oh, luncheon meat. Bri, where’s the bread? Oh, never mind. I see it.”

Brian collapses onto the couch. “There’s beer on the bottom. You know where,” he sighs.

“Oh, ta,” Roger says, and Brian hears him digging through the drawers for the bottle opener.

When Roger joins him in the sitting room, he proffers the plate to Brian. “Half?” he asks, almost sheepishly.

“Erm, all right.” Brian takes the half that he perceives as being slightly smaller. He is a _bit_ hungry, after all.

“I thought that went pretty well,” Roger says, his mouth full of luncheon meat. “You?”

“I dunno,” Brian admits. “I kind of missed a lot. I just felt... weird.”

“Weird how?” Roger asks, frowning.

“Like, kinda lightheaded. Anxious. I don’t know. I was just like, waiting for it to be over.” 

“I didn’t notice! Why didn’t you say something?”

“Well, it’s happened before. It usually passes.” Brian shrugs, nibbling away. 

“If you say so,” Roger says, sounding unconvinced. He takes a swig of beer, and Brian notices that he’s already finished half of it. “Are you allowed to drink?”

“I don’t think so. They have to do another liver test first.”

“Ah,” Roger nods, and within a few minutes, he’s finished off the beer. He turns the empty bottle around in his hands, suddenly very subdued. 

“You can have another,” Brian offers, gently, a little bemused by how serious Roger’s face is. “I mean, I don’t mind. It’ll just sit there ‘cause Chris doesn’t drink it.”

“Oh?” Roger brushes the crumbs off his pants—Brian doesn’t say anything about that—and hops off into the kitchen. Brian leans further into the couch, shrugs his blazer off his shoulders. It’s warm in the flat—there’s a gentle breeze flowing through the window, which Brian inclines his head toward. There’s something about late Spring. A sweet, heady sort of thing. Reminds him of  _Lilac Wine._

There’s a pop which suggests that Roger has opened his second beer.

“I feel like a right prick drinking without you,” Roger whines when he returns, leaning against the wall.

Brian snorts. “Never stopped you before, Rog.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not really good manners, is it?”

“Like I said. Never stopped you before.”

Roger sinks down next to him with a groan. “Where’s your remote?” he asks, and Brian fishes it out of the couch for him.

They watch nearly an entire episode of _Emmerdale Farm_ —on Roger’s insistence, because _nothing else is on!_ —before Brian notices that Roger’s not spoken for maybe twenty minutes. Neither of them have. He looks across his shoulder, curious. 

Roger’s eyes are glassy and his brow is furrowed. The foot that’s crossed over his knee is bouncing rhythmically back and forth.

“Rog.” Brian nudges the foot with his. “You okay?”

“What? Oh,” he laughs, “God. I guess I didn’t eat enough. That second one put me over.”

“Now I’ll have to drive _you_ home.”

“You kicking me out?” Roger purses his lips.

“No. No, I’m joking.” Brian sighs heavily. “Just a joke, Rog.”

“Right. I knew that.” Roger clears his throat, cheeks pink, and turns to face him. “All right, look. Can I just—? Earlier, I wanted to say—”

“Oh, no, Rog—”

“No, no! I just wanted to say,” he takes a breath, “I was thinking about this, and I do want to say, I wasn’t trying to... condescend. Or speak down to you. I, um...”

“ _Roger_.”

“No, I want you to understand. When you got sick, I was really scared I was gonna lose you. It wasn’t likely, I know, but with the infection... And you know how hospitals can be...”

Brian wishes that the cushions would just swallow him up. He has an inkling about where this is going, and he really doesn’t like it.

“It’s hard, you know? Thinking that, in a different life, you could be fucking dead.”

Shit. _Shit_.

“Well, I’m not,” Brian says, weakly.

Roger ducks his head. “I know,” he mutters, “and I’m being stupid. I know it’s stupid.” His voice shakes on the last few words. 

If Brian was tired before, he doesn't notice it now. He leans his shoulder into Roger’s, feels his breath hitch.

“Come on, Rog. I’m fine. We’re fine.”

Roger nods jerkily. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“I’m all right.” Well, maybe not, but he will be. He will be. He hopes.

Roger shakes his head, wiping his eyes on a lacy mauve sleeve. “I’ve lost a lot of sleep over you, mate.”

Brian almost laughs at that. “Join the club,” he murmurs, pulling his friend closer. “I was scared too, you know. Fuck it, I still am.” 

“I know. But you’re fucking good at pretending.” Roger sniffles. “I know I don’t always say it, but I love you, you know.”

Brian blinks. “You never say that.”

“Well, now you know."

But Brian already knows. It wasn’t something that Roger’s said before—or may ever say again—but Brian does know. He just—tends not to think about it in those terms. Fuck it, he doesn’t even know quite what those terms are. Love is a big, big word. But it is relevant. Whatever he feels for Roger, something akin to love has sneaked its way in there.

“Well, I love you too, Rog."

"Yeah?"

"Well, yeah. But don’t—”

He doesn't get a chance to finish because Roger leans into him—like, properly leans into him—and kisses him. Like, _properly_ kisses him. Brian can’t actually believe it’s happened, to be honest. He pulls back instinctively, startled, and it takes him a long moment to contextualize the odd experience; to realize that the salty, bitter taste on his lips is _Roger_ , because Roger Taylor, his friend Roger, has kissed him.

It knocks him sideways, and all he can think, absurdly, is that _maybe_ this is just a joke?

But Roger's expression tells him otherwise. He's just sort of frozen in place. "Sorry. I'm sorry," he mutters.

Brian fights to regain some semblance of composure. Just say something. _Say something._ “It’s okay,” he chokes out. “It’s fine.”

“I’ve never—I swear, I didn’t mean... _Fuck_.” Roger bends in half like a folding chair. Not a joke, then.

Instinctively, Brian puts a hand on the small of his back. _God, what a mess._

Roger mumbles something under his breath. “What?” Brian tugs on him a little, trying to pull him back up.

“I don’t fancy you,” Roger rambles, not willing to look at Brian at all, “I don’t. It was just the booze. Went to my head for a minute.”

“Roger,” Brian starts, and he can feel Roger quivering under his hand.

“God,” Roger moans, “you don’t have to say anything. _Fucking hell_.”

“I’m sorry,” Brian swallows.

Roger straightens himself, breathing shallowly. “Can you just, not tell them?”

“Who?”

“Fred and John. Please.”

“Why would I—? Jesus, of course I won't."

Roger pushes some hair out of his face, and a few blond strands stick to his forehead. It really is a warm day. Hot, even. Especially now. 

Brian sinks back into the couch, his heart pounding in his eardrums. Roger fancies men. Roger, of all people. Good Lord, how’d he miss _that_?

“I should go,” Roger sniffs, wiping at his face.

But Brian shakes his head. There’s no way in hell Brian’s kicking him to the curb like this. Not a chance.

“Don’t. I’ll make tea.”

"Brian, I can go."

"Please sit down," Brian begs him. 

Roger wavers. "You're sure?"

“Of course I’m sure,” Brian tells him, and it’s the truth. God, he really has to say something, doesn’t he? Make this okay, somehow.

“I’m not sure how to say this, but... you’re one of my best friends. Like, one of my _few_ friends, really. So, yeah. Tea.”

“Yeah.” Roger sits gingerly, folding his hands in front of him. 

“You okay?”

A nod.

Brian wanders into the kitchen, floating. This is going to take an effort. A concerted fucking effort. But Roger is not a friend that he’s willing to lose. They’ll say it’s the booze, even if they both know better. Too much booze and not enough sleep. A momentary slip. And then maybe, maybe, they’ll forget it ever happened, they’ll record an album or two, and Queen will be a moderately successful endeavor. Maybe.

Brian is starting to feel his body now. That ache is back—the exhaustion. The nausea. This whole situation certainly hasn’t helped. God knows how Roger must feel.

“How many sugars, one?” Brian calls as the kettle boils. Roger is always one or two, depending on his mood.

“Two,” comes the quiet reply.

Yes, Brian thinks it’s a two-sugars day for him as well.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ummmm turns out I'm not done?
> 
> this story took about a thousand turns before i was finally remotely happy with it. but now i'm certainly not leaving it here so stay tuned. also, to all those out there who also suffer from anxiety and depression, we've lived, man. it's rough stuff, but we're killing it. c:


	3. In Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian turns 27.

Brian hoped, at first, that the debilitating abdominal pain he was experiencing could be chalked up to stress and poor diet. It wasn’t as if the symptoms were entirely new to him. In college, he’d been told by his GP that he _may_ be developing a stomach ulcer, and to come in for further treatment if eating bland foods and taking antacids didn’t help.

Luckily, he did start to feel better at that point, so he didn’t go any further with it, and didn’t worry himself with surgery or medication.

So, when the symptoms began to creep back into his daily life during the past few months, he wasn’t overly concerned, and decided to be a bit extra careful about what he ate. When the pain continued to worsen, he told himself it would sort itself _eventually_. He just needed to stop stressing himself out over the album.

But when he started to find blood in the toilet bowl, well... Brian figured that maybe he could swing a few more days’ worth of rehearsal with the band before he got it checked out. Stupid, in hindsight. Ineffably stupid.

He ended up bent double in the middle of an afternoon recording session, sending the entire room into a blind panic.

“Somebody call 999,” Freddie demanded, kneeling to cradle Brian’s face in his hands. “Look at me, dear. Go on, that’s it. What’s happening?”

“Pain,” Brian ground out, trying not to break down into tears, and probably failing miserably. _Pain_ was happening. Worse than any he’d felt in recent memory.

And just like that, he was back in hospital. _Round two._ Duodenal ulcer, this time. Leaking blood into his small intestines.

Brian thinks he should be a professional by now, but waking up in a hospital doesn’t seem to get any easier. There’s still that immediate, crushing disappointment that yes, he’s still here, and here’s ten horse pills to swallow before he can enjoy his daily sponge bath. Not to mention, of course, that his whole body feels beaten to hell, and even mundane tasks like getting out of bed are all very intricate, exhausting endeavors.

Brian can’t help but wonder if he’s ever going to feel well again. It’s been months since the last time he walked around entirely pain-free. It’s incredible that he took that for granted. Everyone does. Nobody thinks about how much worse their life could be. Nobody imagines being stuck in bed while the rest of the world spins forward without them.

He feels a pang of jealousy when he looks at Chrissie and Freddie—his two visitors today—who are glowing and radiant and _healthy_. Brian feels tired just watching them.

Luckily, they get a long surprisingly well, even though Chrissie is a sweet Catholic girl and Fred is maybe the polar opposite. But they always find something interesting to chat about, which means that Brian doesn’t have to be the center of attention. Today, Freddie is regaling Chrissie with stories about his primary school in Zanzibar as they sip tea out of paper cups from the refectory.

“There weren’t any qualms about letting the older boys slap us around,” he tells her, matter-of-factly. “They thought it was good character-building, I suppose. I didn’t get hit, mind you, but I was better-behaved than most. No, they all liked me well enough.”

Brian can believe that. Freddie will charm the trousers off of anybody, even while he’s tying their shoelaces together.

“That’s so awful,” Chrissie mutters, “but I guess that’s the culture of those schools. I think boys need love, not violence. There's enough violence in the world.”

“Hear, hear!” Freddie agrees, raising his paper cup in a toast. “To love.”

“To love,” Chrissie echoes.

“Brian, dear?”

“I don’t have a cup, Fred.” He isn’t in the mood, anyway.

“Well, your IV line will do.”

“Oh, yeah,” Chrissie laughs. “Good idea!”

“To love, then,” Brian sighs, gesturing with an imaginary glass.

Truth be told, he’s a little relieved when they gather their things to go home. It’s been a long day, insofar as every day in hospital is a long day. Chrissie leaves first, wanting to get home to start dinner, but Fred lingers for a few minutes longer.

“Got any plans for the night?” Brian asks, just to make conversation.

“Oh,” Freddie pauses, “I’m meeting Roger, actually. We’re having a little soiree with some friends from our market days.”

“Oh, right? Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

“You know me.” Freddie flashes him a smile. “I’ll find a way.”

 _Roger_. Just the mention of the name gets Brian overthinking.

Roger is a frequent visitor, but he usually comes during the day, before Chrissie gets off from her teaching job. It just makes sense that way, he says. He doesn’t want to interrupt Brian’s time with her. But Brian has an inkling that’s not the full truth. After all, it’s not stopped him or Freddie before. Brian reckons that he’s just ashamed; afraid that she’ll somehow sniff him out.

Whether that’s likely to happen is a different story. So far, Chrissie hasn’t seemed to notice that anything’s changed between them, whereas Freddie picked up on it the moment they were all in the same room together.

“Did something happen between you and Rog?” he asked Brian one night, after dinner at John and Veronica’s. The moment Roger excused himself to the toilet, Freddie popped the question, making Brian choke on his egg custard.

“What do you mean?”

Freddie shrugged. “I dunno. You’ve not said a word to each other all day.”

“Yeah,” John agreed. “It’s odd. Usually you’re bickering the whole time.”

“Everything’s fine,” Brian insisted, and although Freddie certainly didn’t buy it, he didn’t ask again. He didn’t need to.

Over the next few days, Brian made a conscious effort to treat Roger as if nothing extraordinary had happened. Roger gratefully returned the favor, and soon enough, it didn’t take a conscious effort anymore. They just carried on. Whatever _it_ was became history, rather than anything that exists between them in the present. At least that’s what he tells himself.

In reality, Brian still frets over it. What gets him isn’t the fact that Roger likes boys as well as girls. That’s not so unusual, according to all the modern thinkers. It’s the idea that Roger likes _him_ specifically. Brian knows what it’s like to be in love, and he hopes that Roger isn’t suffering on his account.

But perhaps this is just Brian’s arrogance speaking. If he is suffering, Roger certainly doesn’t show it.

He walks in the next morning looking fresh as a daisy.

“How was last night?” Brian asks, raising his eyebrows. He’s surprised Roger’s even shown up, given the nocturnal nature of the parties that he and Fred frequent.

“Oh, fine,” Roger replies, tossing a small plastic bag into Brian’s lap. It’s full of little yellow candies—sherbet lemons, one of Brian’s favorites. “It was near that sweet shop we used to go to, so I picked those up. Not sure if you can actually eat them, but there you go.”

“I don’t know. But thank you.”

“I didn’t stay very long, to be honest.”

“Oh?”

“They’re mostly Freddie’s friends. I didn’t know them very well. But how are you?”

“Ah,” Brian sighs, leaning his chin into his palm. “Okay.” He has a mild headache and he’s bloated and constipated, but apart from that, _fine, thanks for asking_.

“You sure?” Roger frowns.

“Yeah. You know. It’s just this place. I don’t know if I’m going to get out of here before my birthday at this rate.”

Roger waves dismissively. “Of course you will. If not, we’ll ask them to let us borrow you for a few hours so we can celebrate.”

“Oh, right?” Brian laughs. “Like a rental car.”

“Exactly like a rental car, yeah,” Roger rolls his eyes. “How old are you again? Twenty-six?”

Brian nods. “It’s my twenty-seventh coming up.”

Roger whistles. “Time does fly, doesn’t it?” He gestures for one of Brian’s sweets. “Frankly, I never thought I would live this long. I sort of thought being dead would be preferable to being an adult with a nine to five.”

“That’s a bit excessive, don’t you think?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Roger says, rolling a candy around in his mouth. “We’re pretty lucky. We get to play music for a living. But then you’ve got to deal with paying for everything, being responsible for everything, having kids...”

“You don’t have to have kids,” Brian interjects.

“Well, okay. But my mum wants grandkids.” He smiles wanly. “What about you?”

“What, will I have kids?” Brian pales. “I dunno.”

He’s not given it much thought. He can’t really imagine being a dad. He likes kids well enough, but he’s certainly not got baby fever. Besides, it’s not really up to him, as he isn’t the one with the ovaries.

“I think you’d be a good dad,” Roger says, which sounds awfully sentimental coming from him. He blushes ever so slightly after letting that one slip out, and Brian has to smile.

 

 

 

But Brian thinks that Roger has a point. It’s impressive just to make it to twenty-seven, even if you don’t have much to show for a quarter-century’s worth of life. Brian has a half-finished PhD thesis and a shitty record deal with a shoddy label. But it’s something. At least he’s alive.

 _And_ he’ll be home for his birthday.

When Freddie asks him what he wants for a gift, Brian says that there’s nothing he needs. It’s true—he’s home, he’s started working again, and his body feels as if it’s finally beginning to heal.

“I didn’t ask what you _need_ ,” Freddie chastises. “I asked what you want.”

“Nothing, Fred,” Brian insists. “We can get together. Have a little party. That’s it.”

Freddie purses his lips. “I suppose. If that’s what you _want_.”

So that’s how they plan it: a get-together at Brian and Chrissie’s at 5 pm, the day before Brian’s actual birthday, which he plans to spend with his parents.

But from the moment the date is set, Brian frets.

Sure, he’s feeling much better these days, but there’s still a lingering reticence to go anywhere or do anything requiring extended social interaction. Of course, he can hardly refuse a party at his own flat. Fred even insisted on doing it early in the evening, just so Brian can get to bed at a reasonable hour. _You won’t have to do any heavy lifting,_ he said. _Just let us bring the goods._

Of course, the _goods_ just means gin, vodka, and a few bottles of tonic and lemonade. Although he’s been cleared to drink alcohol again, he's meant to do it in moderation, so he can’t even depend on boozing himself into oblivion to get through this.

 _Get through this?_ Brian chides himself. _What is there to get through? It’s only a party._ And Tim Staffell is coming as well, which Brian is admittedly looking forward to. They used to be close as anything, before life got in the way. At first, Brian wasn’t sure if Tim would come at all, considering he’d be sharing the room with Queen. But he assured Brian that he’s perfectly happy working on his art and doing things in his own time. Brian can't really imagine being happy not playing music, but he can't quite imagine being _happy_ either.

On the night of, Roger is the first guest to arrive.

There’s that _rat-a-tat-tat_ that that Brian knows so well, followed by a girlish _yoo-hoo!_ Of course, Roger is Roger, so he’s already had a few before coming over. He slaps Brian on the back, perhaps a bit harder than he means to, and gives Chrissie a big kiss on the cheek.

“Hi, darling! I’ve brought a few snacks,” he tells her. “Shall I put them on the table here?”

Funnily, Tim and Freddie arrive at the same time. The harbingers of two different eras in Brian’s life. What a moment this is. They get along well nowadays, even though they often butted heads when Freddie was Smile's most opinionated groupie. Time has softened them both.

Time’s softened them all, come to think of it.

Even Roger is considerably more polite than he used to be, back when he first answered their ad for a drummer. Maybe Freddie’s had a role to play in that. The two of them sit together on Brian’s couch, hip to hip, chatting quietly with Tim, who’s sat cross-legged on the floor.

John and Veronica are last, but not late. Before he crosses the threshold, John hands Brian a paper bag stuffed with tissue wrap. Inside is an expensive-looking bottle of wine which John assures him is one of the best reds he’s ever had. “For when you’re up to it,” he stage-whispers. “No need to break it open now. Save it for yourself.”

“Thanks, John,” Brian says, a little warmth rising in his cheeks. He did tell them not to bring anything, but it feels nice to have somebody break the rules.

“Deacon’s arrived, everybody!” Freddie exclaims from inside. “Oh, now it’s a fucking party!”

“Fred!” Chrissie chastises. “The neighbors’ll shut us down if you shout like that.”

“I’m coming, boy, hold on,” John calls. He pats Brian on the arm. “Go on. Hide that in the kitchen.”

Brian does as he’s told. He sets the wine down on the counter, behind the bread box. Roger's in the kitchen too, digging through the fridge, but he pops his head out when he hears the thunk of the bottle on the counter.

"I was looking for lemons," he says, holding one up in his hand. 

Brian nods, bemused. "You found them."

"Yeah. You having fun yet?" Roger asks, taking a knife from the cutlery drawer. 

"Not yet, but it's early days."

Roger seems genuinely concerned by that. "At least try, Brian," he insists, and Brian nods to placate him. Yes, he'll try.

 

 

 

After everyone’s had a few drinks—except for Brian, who’s had one carefully constructed vodka and soda—Freddie pulls a soft pink gift box out of thin air. How’d he smuggle that in?

“All right, Bri,” he says, grabbing Brian’s hand and dragging him toward the couch. “I know you said not to get you anything, but we all chipped in for this one.”

“Fred, credit, please!” Roger adds, earning a loud boo from John.

“What that idiot means,” Freddie shoots back, “is that it was his idea to do so. But we all chipped in.” He pauses to slap Roger across the head.

“Ow!”

“Boys, boys! Give the poor man his present,” Tim pleads.

Freddie slides the box across the coffee table.

“Oh, thanks, guys,” Brian says, genuinely taken aback. He looks around the room, and everyone’s looking back at him, expectantly.

He takes the box into his lap. It isn’t very heavy, but it has a nice weight to it.

“Don’t shake it about,” Freddie warns, sitting down beside him. 

Brian undoes the little bow fastened to its lid and opens it. Inside is a large ceramic dish, painted deep, dark blue. At the center of it are delicate white stars forming the constellation of Cancer, his birth sign. Of course, that much was probably Fred’s idea. Years back, he heard Brian’s birthday and immediately asked, _Cancer, right?_ Brian said yes, and Freddie nodded knowingly, as if that meant something. Cheeky bastard.

Brian takes the plate out of its tissue wrap and turns it around in his hands. It looks custom-made, but it’s been meticulously painted and glazed, and he guesses that it cost a pretty penny if they bought it in London.

“Guys, this is... really pretty. Thank you.” Brian puts the plate in the center of the coffee table, nudging aside somebody’s half-finished drink. It really does add a nice artistic touch to their drab little sitting room.

“You are welcome,” Freddie says, glowing. “One of my old classmates makes them. Not like, starry ones, but just regular dinnerware and things. He did this one special.”

“That’s gorgeous, guys, thank you,” Chrissie says, picking it up. “We need a bit of color around here.”

Roger, who’s been hovering over Freddie’s shoulder, squeezes in next to Brian on the couch, which wasn’t really made to comfortably accommodate three grown men.

“Happy twenty-seventh, mate,” he says, giving Brian a bump with his shoulder. Brian nudges him back.

“Thanks, Rog.”

“I’m really glad you made it." 

“Oh, Roger Taylor!” Fred chastises.

But Brian understands. Roger’s always been a straight shooter. It has to have been on all their minds at some point—the possibility of _Brian May, 1947-1974._ _Beloved Son._

“Me too.” He smiles, but there’s an odd sort of lump forming in his throat. It isn’t the idea of dying, surely. He’s been comfortable with that idea for a long time.

“Can we sing now?” Chrissie asks.

The others murmur in agreement, and Freddie starts, “All right, one, two, three—”

_Happy birthday to you,_

_Happy birthday to you,_

_Happy birthday, dear Briaaaaaan—_

_Happy birthday to you!_

Chrissie leans across the table and kisses him, and he gets a little hug around the waist from Freddie.

But the lump grows and grows until there’s tears fogging up his vision. What the _fuck_?

He wants to recoil and sink into the couch and have everybody just get on with their chattering, but of course they’re all looking at him and beaming like parents at a graduation ceremony.

Brian just sniffs and uses the back of his hand to wipe hastily at his eyes.

“Oh, darling,” Fred soothes. Of course he would notice. He leans his head into Brian’s shoulder. If anything, that just makes it worse. Brian laughs—a croaky little sound—as Roger presses into him from the other side.

“Hey, it's all right.”

“Yes, come on, smile.” Freddie brushes his cheek with a thumb. “That’s it.”

“Aw, Fred, lay off,” Brian mutters, already more than a little ashamed.

“Wait, I feel a bit left out now,” Tim complains from the floor.

“Well, come on then.” Roger holds out his free arm, the one that isn’t trapped between Brian and himself.

Soon enough, Brian finds himself under a pile of warm bodies, all smelling mildly of booze, cigarette smoke, and various perfumes. It’s not the worst feeling in the world, even though his hands are pinned to his sides and Tim’s knee is dangerously close to his crotch. At least he doesn't feel as if he's about to cry anymore. 

 

 

 

Roger, despite being one of the first to arrive, doesn’t even pretend to get ready to leave until everyone else has made their excuses. He does help clean the place up, though, and as they toss the last few bottles into the trash, Chrissie yawns loudly and announces she’s going to bed. She’s been close to nodding off for the past hour, and Brian is surprised she’s still awake at all. It’s only eleven, but it feels much later.

“How ‘bout you?” Roger asks, stifling a yawn of his own.

“Oh, I’m all right for now. Thanks for helping tidy up.”

“My pleasure. Least I can do.”

Brian scratches the back of his neck. “You wanna stay over, or...?”

“Oh, no,” Roger shakes his head adamantly. “Just wanted to say, erm, nothing really. Actually. Just, it’s nice to see you enjoying yourself, I guess.” He glances down at his feet, looking a bit lost for words, which is quite the rarity for him.

“It’s been a while,” Brian admits.

“A long while, yeah."

"I did have fun."

Roger nods and smiles. "I really hoped you would. Well, I guess I’ll see you when you get back from your parents'.”

“Yeah, okay.” Brian follows him to the door. Roger stops, turns back, and opens his arms, questioning. Brian catches him and hugs him for a long moment. Neither of them say anything. There isn’t anything worth saying. It just is what it is. A brief moment of affection between friends. Everything and nothing all at once. Brian almost wishes he could give more. 

Roger sniffs. “Okay. I’ll be off.”

“Okay. Goodnight,” Brian adds, crossing his arms around his body. It’s chilly in the hallway.

“Happy birthday, old man.”

And then he’s gone.

“It’s yours in a week,” Brian calls after him, listening to Roger’s footsteps clatter down the stairs. He waits until they sound from the ground floor, and then listens to the front door unlatching and creaking on its hinges. It slams shut, and then Brian's left alone with silence. 

He thinks that by twenty-seven, he should have a better grip on how to say goodbye. He almost wants to run down after Roger, offer to go tear up the town for a bit—drink a lot and damn the consequences. It would be fun, for a night, to forget himself. But nothing comes for free. He has the rest of the summer to look forward to, at least. There must be something worthwhile in that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy ending? What's that?


End file.
